


Paradigm Shift

by cassiopeia721



Series: author's favorites [10]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abusive Dursley Family (Harry Potter), Alternate Hogwarts House Sorting, Canonical Child Abuse, Gen, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Re-Sorting, Resorting, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherins Being Slytherins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia721/pseuds/cassiopeia721
Summary: par·a·digm shift/ˈperəˌdīm SHift/nouna fundamental change in the usual approach to, or the underlying assumptions about, an issue.Harry undergoes a paradigm shift at the beginning of his fifth year.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Slytherin Students, Harry Potter & The Wizarding World, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Kreacher & Harry Potter
Series: author's favorites [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069328
Comments: 89
Kudos: 443
Collections: Catlady5001’s Favorite Fanfics, why I only sleep an hour a night





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassiopeia721](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeia721/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Unexpected Consequences](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15753381) by [Siebenschlaefer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siebenschlaefer/pseuds/Siebenschlaefer). 



> Yes, I'm gifting this work to myself. That's because this is 100% pure, unfiltered self-indulgence. I should _really_ be working on my WIPs, but I just... love this concept, so here we are. 
> 
> The initial premise of this fic is very much inspired by Siebenschlaefer's fic, _Unexpected Consequences_. If you have not read that fic already, I highly recommend it. 
> 
> The definition of paradigm shift is a combination of the basic Google definition and Merriam-Webster's definition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: child abuse, strangulation, murder threats, starvation, hypervigilance

There is something hungry deep within Harry, something curling in his belly, nesting in the hollow space within his ribcage, resonating in the marrows of his bones. It is both hungry and wild; perhaps its hunger makes it wild, perhaps its wildness makes it hungry. Either way, what matters is that it is both hungry and wild, and thus, so is Harry. 

Harry has never been quite tame— never been taught proper table manners, never been coddled or spoiled, never known an adult he trusted— but recently his hackles have risen, his fangs slipped from their sheathes, his mind turned towards dark things. The events of the graveyard have turned him from a wary, not-entirely-tamed stray to a feral, cornered creature ready to lash out with vicious accuracy at any given moment.

If you ask Harry, it’s only to be expected, all things considered.

Lord Voldemort has returned. Tall and pale as a marble statue and just as human, he rose from the cauldron, a nightmare come to grace the earth. The Death Eaters knelt around him, trembling in fear and delight, but Harry continued to stand tall, even when Cedric fell, slack-jawed and empty-eyed, to sleep eternal with his cheek pillowed against the dark earth. 

Lord Voldemort has returned. Harry has been in danger before— has faced troll and basilisk, fled werewolf and Uncle Vernon’s wrath, dodged thrown curses along with Dudley’s punches— but this is on a different level than anything he has faced before.

Lord Voldemort has returned. 

They send him back to the Dursleys. 

Lord Voldemort has returned, unyielding as those statues of ancient Roman conquerors with their colored paint and humanity worn away, pitiless and powerful and _so, so angry_ , and they send Harry back to the Dursleys. 

Locked away in his cage, Harry paces alone. Nightmares leave his sleep patchy and disturbed, and the Dursleys feed him as little as ever. His friends are distant and evasive, all of their letters written in scrawls like they barely have time to talk to him at all. Scraps meant to pacify him, Harry thinks derisively. 

He refuses to lie down and wait for death. He isn’t allowed to use his wand, but Harry still practices the hand motions of every spell and curse and potion that he knows, trying to keep them from slipping out of his memory. He hides beneath the ledge of the garden window, listening to the news and trying to glean what he can of what’s _really_ going on. During the long hours waiting, he does push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups, determined to develop whatever sort of strength he can. 

It’s not even close to enough. Harry struggles to sleep at all, and although he continues to choke down the crumbs the Dursleys give him, they taste like sawdust in his mouth. Ron and Hermione ignore his pleas for information, blushing him aside with empty promises. 

The Dursleys seem to have decided to ignore him instead of micromanaging him, this summer, so it’s easy enough to go where he pleases. As such, he heads to the library, ignoring the whispering of the librarians and the side-eyes from the other patrons and instead scouring the shelves for books on self-defense, military strategy, and battlefield medicine. Some of the concepts are made obsolete by magic; hand-to-hand combat is little use against the long range of a wand. Other concepts, like triaging injured fighters, or targeting enemies’ supplies, definitely have potential. 

Harry filches an empty notebook bought several years ago for Dudley to fill with class notes and begins copying down everything he thinks that he could use. He also records his thoughts for specific applications of the various concepts, and potential pitfalls. 

It still isn’t enough. He needs to be doing more than the theoretical. Harry pushes himself harder with his workouts, forcing himself to, and then beyond, his limits. He tries to do wandless magic, even though he only manages it once in every five or six times, and each attempt leaves him exhausted. He even goads Dudley into fighting him a few times, taunting and provoking him until he lashes out in blind rage. When he does, Harry can test his reaction times, his pain tolerance, can watch how Dudley’s new boxing training has changed the way he stands, the way he hits. 

He takes notes on these things too; on the best exercises for different muscles, on what seems to help with making wandless magic work, on the best stance to prevent enemies from easily knocking you off your feet. 

Even a lack of proper food isn’t enough to prevent him from gaining a sort of cordy, wiry muscle. Exhausted but grimly satisfied, Harry succeeds in training himself to be able to consistently create a small, warm light the size of a candle’s flame that floats just above his cupped hand. His upper lip a swollen, bloody mass from Dudley’s relentless punches, Harry smiles. 

Still, the wild thing living within him only grows hungrier the more bones he gives it to gnaw on. 

It’s no wonder, then, that when the dementors come, Harry is so quick to spring into action. He draws his wand from his back pocket, and this time, when he waves it, he allows the wildfire in his core to spread, surging down his arm, through the delicate flesh and bones of his hands to burst forth in the form of brilliant, glorious, _living_ magic. His Patronus burns with the pure, barren heat of the searing center of a flame, and the Dementors flinch back before it, no more fearsome than cobwebs and shadows. 

Dudley is so stunned it’s not hard to grip him by the arm and manhandle him inside. The elder Dursleys are more difficult to manage— Aunt Petunia watches him, lips pinches and eyes narrow with suspicion, as she fusses over Dudley, and the tone of voice Uncle Vernon uses as he questions Dudley… well, for all of his attempts at fatherly gentleness, the underlying rage would be audible even to the deaf. 

“It was Potter,” Dudley says, face still pale as a sheet. His muscles are clenched into a sort of painful-looking crystallization, like a rabbit who just fell under the shadow of a passing hawk. “He’s being picking fights with me all summer— and now he tried to kill me.” 

Uncle Vernon is on him in an instant, hands closing around Harry’s throat as he strangles him. The pressure of it is constant and crushing. It reminds Harry of the nightmares he has sometimes, the ones where the boa constrictor from the zoo rises and wraps around him, squeezing, squeezing, _squeezing_. His vision has gained a tint the same shade of purple as Uncle Vernon’s face when Aunt Petunia finally manages to get him to let go, saying something about what “their type” would do to them if he died. 

Harry thinks of telling McGonagall about the Sorceror’s Stone, about learning Hogwarts would be shut down without anyone so much as trying to find the Chamber, about being calmly told that he would have to compete in the Tournament even though he hadn’t entered his name— he thinks of all these things and decides, _What would “my type” do to the Dursleys? Nothing, really._

That’s a fair bit more bitter than Harry usually allows himself to be, but in his defense, everyone he knows and loves has decided to leave him in the dark about the _murderous maniac who’s deadset on killing him_. He thinks he’s allowed a bit of bitterness. 

Anyhow, the illusion that someone in the magical world is actively protecting him is the only thing preventing Uncle Vernon from killing him here and now, so he doesn’t breathe a word of any of his thoughts either way. 

Harry flinches at the sound of an owl forcing its way in through the half-open kitchen window. He’ll bet anything that’s a letter from the Ministry. Aunt Petunia comes at the owl with a broom, but it’s wily enough to dodge her and drop the letter on Harry’s head before turning around and heading out as quick as it can. 

Harry rips the letter open manages to skim it just before Uncle Vernon yanks it out of his hands. This is his second usage of underage magic, the letter tells him. He’s been expelled from Hogwarts, and the Aurors are on their way to snap his wand. 

Well, Harry reasons distantly, an expulsion from Hogwarts will make the business of surviving significantly more difficult than it had been previously, but it isn’t an immediate death sentence. Having his wand snapped, on the other hand, is far more problematic, considering that Lord Voldemort would like him dead and, despite all of his efforts over this summer, Harry is still near useless without one. 

Uncle Vernon’s finally finished reading the letter— he’d had to take several moments to brace himself to read something so _freakish_ , it seems— and now he’s grinning, which almost certainly doesn’t bode well for Harry’s continued survival. “Sounds like the freaks are about as happy with you as we are!” he crows. “What was that you were saying about his sort, dearest?” He looks like he’s eager to pick up right where he left off with strangling Harry.

Aunt Petunia starts frantically trying to persuade her husband that there will still be trouble if they permanently damage Harry, but he isn’t sure how much luck she’s going to have. Harry slips out into the hall and unlocks the cupboard under the stairs using magic, then shrinks his things and tucks them away. He’s just taken his Invisibility Cloak from his pocket and is about to swing it over his shoulders and head out when the second owl enters. 

This one is from Arthur Weasley, telling him to stay where he is in no uncertain terms. Harry supposes it doesn’t cost him anything to put his departure off a little bit longer. He’s still not at all inclined to risk his uncle’s wrath, so he slides the hood of the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and crouches in the corner of the hall, keeping his breathing shallow and silent as he holds his wand at the ready in his hand. 

He’ll give them a chance, Harry tells himself, letting his head fall back against the wall and his eyes slip closed in a moment’s respite. He’ll give them a chance to prove him wrong. 

He waits three days, staying under his Invisibility Cloak and eating the food he’d packed in his trunk, enchanted with stasis charms, at the beginning of the summer. He’d not had an opportunity beforehand, with his trunk having been immediately locked away upon his arrival, but he’s glad now for his forethought. 

With each passing day, Harry grows more skeptical and more cynical. Even if wizards do come for him, he thinks bitterly, it would have been too late if not for Harry’s actions. It was _Harry_ who protected himself from the Dementors, and it is _Harry_ now who is carefully hiding from his murderous uncle. If Harry didn’t have the sense to use his invisibility cloak and to have stashed away food so he could survive unobtrusively, they’d be stopping by to pick up his body and nothing more. 

On the fourth day, a group of wizards _finally_ stop by to pick him up. Harry abruptly finds himself caught up in the familiar whirlwind of the magical world once again, in seeing the eccentricity of Mad-Eye Moody and meeting strange Nymphadora Tonks, who can shift her appearance at will, in the all-too-familiar sensation of the assembled wizards’ and witches weighty stares, and in the equally familiar way that each of them redirects all of his questions. 

The only useful thing he learns, Harry thinks bitterly, is not to stow his wand in his back pocket lest he blow off one of his buttocks. 

They transport him via broom, which makes Harry wonder about the possible usage of brooms in battle. It’s not something Harry has seen or heard of in the Wizarding World, which could make it an excellent way to surprise the enemy, and it would make for a good opportunity to employ some of the muggle tactics used in dogfighting and other types of muggle aerial warfare. Harry hadn’t researched those fields in any depth and resolves to research it when he can. 

They reach the safe house, which is a grimy townhouse that seems more suited for housing a Dark wizard than the Weasleys and the rest of Harry’s friends. Still, house them it does, as Harry sees for certain upon entering and almost immediately being pulled into a hug with Mrs. Weasley. 

She quickly leaves again, however; apparently, there’s a meeting of the Order of the Phoenix, a group Dumbledore has assembled to fight Voldemort. A group Harry is not a part of, and whose meetings he is not allowed to show up to. Harry grinds his teeth, and the wildfire in his chest flares higher. The wild thing inside him wants to snap his teeth at Mrs. Weasley’s heels, point out in cutting words just how utterly _stupid_ it is not to allow him the information he needs to protect himself, but he bits the words back. Arguing with adults has never helped him. 

Arguing with Ron and Hermione doesn’t help, either. They only say that they’re sorry they couldn’t tell him more over the summer, and Dumbledore told not to, and that it was to keep him safe. They at least can tell him more about the Order, and about the house itself, which is, it turns out, an old inheritance of Sirius’. 

In the end, Harry doesn’t spend too long with them, as each conversation topic seems to bump against the things that make Harry want to yell himself hoarse. Instead, Harry tells them he’s going to go get settled in his room and leaves them to their usual bickering over house-elf libration. 

It doesn’t take long for Harry to pack his things away, what with how little he owns. He sits on his musty-smelling bed, thinking. He’d filched concealer from Aunt Petunia, and used it to cover the purple-black bruising that mars the pale skin of his neck, but he knows it’s bound to smear or rub off, eventually. He doesn’t want the wizards’ pity, doesn’t want them to think he’s weak when they’re already treating him so much like a child. 

He’s vaguely aware of glamour charms, though he doesn’t know any himself. He’ll have to look around for any books in the house, and try to learn one. 

That plan made, Harry pulls out his spiral-bound notebook and begins writing down all of the thoughts he’d had on using brooms for aerial warfare. 

After dinner, Harry manages to persuade the adults to tell him a little bit (a precious little bit) about what’s going on with Voldemort. Sirius lingers with him a little bit longer, seeming eager to talk. He tells Harry a little bit more than the others had, and, when asked, reluctantly reveals the location of the Black library. 

Harry slips away to the aforementioned library. It’s as grimy as the rest of the house, and the whole place is hung thick with Dark magic. As he browses the shelves looking for anything he can find on glamour charms, he notices that many of the books bite. Still, he manages to find a promising looking book on glamours, as well as a book on dueling that he happened to spot. 

After Harry learns his new glamour charm by rote, Harry devours the book on dueling. Just like the muggle books that he’d read earlier, Harry notes down everything that he thinks might be useful; he copies down how to identify curses by color and wand movement, how best to choose counterspells, and on the best strategies for shielding. From there, it’s natural to leaf through a treatise on healing magic (Harry grimly reflects that knowing his luck, every spell he learns will end up applicable at some point or another), and then he finds himself entrenched in a thick tome on warding. After all, he really wouldn’t have minded having some wards, back at Privet Drive. 

When the pale dawn light creeps through the grimy windows and dapples his page, Harry is surrounded by piles of books, and deeply engrossed in an introductory book on runes. As it turns out, warding is based on runes to the point where Harry couldn’t hope to ever lay down a ward if he doesn’t learn at least _something_ of runes. The book is dense and weathered, but Harry is determined to parse through it. At his side, he’s filled a good two dozen more pages of his notebook with notes on everything that he’s learned. 

Harry blinks as he sees sunlight fall on his hand; he’d grown used to seeing by the dim light of the old gas lamp next to him. He peers over and realizes with a start that he’s been reading all night. He has no desire for Mrs. Weasley to realize what he’s been up to, so he quickly puts away the books (being careful to note their location for future perusal), double-checks his glamour charms, and heads down for breakfast. 

Mrs. Weasley is talking about setting them to work cleaning up Grimmauld Place, but Harry finds it easy enough to get her to count him out of her plans just by saying something about being tired. He thinks that everyone must have heard him venting his frustrations to Ron and Hermione earlier, and although the thought should probably bring him a flush of shame, right now he’s too grateful for the freedom their new wariness of him brings. 

While the others clean, Harry slips off to the library to do more research. This time, he notices an unfamiliar house-elf often lurking among the shelves, ostensibly dusting the books but with eyes persistently lingering on Harry. He’s sure to be extra careful with the delicate books and to put each one back exactly where he found it. 

At lunch, Harry asks about the elf, which sends Sirius into a furious tirade, which in turns sets Hermione off about one of her speeches about house-elf liberation. Between the two of them, Harry at least manages to learn that the elf’s name is Kreacher, and he is quite devoted to the Blacks. Apparently, he has been mercilessly cursing out the rest of them, which makes Harry wonder why he hasn’t so much as called Harry a blood traitor. Perhaps it’s because, unlike the others, Harry is not endeavoring to clean the house. 

The others continue their attempts at cleaning the house, but Harry finds himself spending almost all of his time in the library. He’s never been someone who enjoyed learning for learning’s sake, but now each tidbit he masters is a weapon in his hands to point towards Voldemort, and he very much likes that. 

At first, Hermione seems delighted by his newfound studiousness. During the times when she isn’t busy cleaning and Harry isn’t busy researching, she listens to him talking about what he’s reading with interest and suggests other books, other spells, other fields to look into. But, when Harry suggests practicing dueling together, she waves him off, saying that she’s unwilling to “engage in underage magic”, even though Sirius told them that the house is warded against the Trace. None of Harry’s attempts at bargaining or logic will persuade her otherwise, and he drops the matter, worried that if he pushes it, she’ll tell Mrs. Weasley that he’s been using underage magic. 

Ron’s the opposite; he’s up for a few practice duels here and there when he manages to skive off cleaning, and he’s a dab hand at strategy, but when Harry starts suggesting he pick up specific spells, that he sit down and read specific books, he’s suddenly no longer quite so interested. 

Sirius, at least, is willing to duel him. His style is very different from Harry’s own; Harry is concerned only with efficiency, with winning, with survival, but Sirius is flashy and flamboyant, with a flair for the dramatics. At the same time, he’s got a wicked sense of creativity that allows him to continually surprise his opponents, catching them off guard and tricking them. His experience from the First Wizarding War also lends him an edge, and Harry is able to learn a good bit from him. 

~~Sirius calls him James sometimes, when they duel. Harry ignores it, because the hungry, scared thing inside him likes the feeling of power and assurance of knowing more about dueling more than it likes being called by the right name.~~

Mad-Eye Moody is also more than willing to duel him. He seems to approve of Harry’s new pursuits and even gives Harry a new wand holster so he has somewhere better to hold his wand than just his belt-loop. Mad-Eye Moody is too busy to duel him often, but each time is enlightening; he’s got an inventive, pragmatic approach that fits well with the way Harry himself functions. 

There is someone else who seems to approve of what Harry is doing, and it is not anyone who Harry would expect. Kreacher has changed from watching Harry warily to fetching books for him without being asked, and warning him when “that Weasley woman”, as he calls Mrs. Weasley, is headed his way. It’s through Kreacher’s warnings that Harry manages to hide his perusal of a number of somewhat… Dark books and his usage of underage magic from Mrs. Weasley. 

It’s funny since Harry spent the whole summer break before this desperately wishing that he could see his friends, but he finds himself spending less time with them. He’s not completely cut off from them; he eats with them, and they’ll spend some of the time the others aren’t busy cleaning together. Still, Harry feels a measure of distance from them. 

Harry is more than willing to talk strategy with Ron or carry on a conversation about runes with Hermione. It’s when Ron tells him that he should take a break every so often, or when Hermione starts asking if he wants to talk about Cedric, that Harry finds himself withdrawing. Similarly, he’s happy to listen to the twins tell him everything they’ve learned through their Extendable Ears, but when they tell him not to be so serious all the time, he turns aside. 

Even when he does find time to spend with them, his mind wanders. For instance, the Weasleys want to play exploding snap, and he’s willing to spare the time for a few games, but soon he’s thinking about the best usage for fire-based spells instead of the cards. He simply doesn’t see how any of them are able to act so unconcerned and relaxed when Voldemort is out there. Can’t they see the danger they’re all in? Don’t they understand the need to prepare themselves? 

The day of the trial comes through at last. Harry spends the night trying and failing to sleep, until finally, at half-past four, he gives up and gets up for the day. Harry showers and thoroughly combs his hair, although he thinks it doesn’t make any difference, and then dresses in his best clothes, which are the slacks he wears under his robes at Hogwarts, and a shirt that isn't _quite_ as ragged as the rest. 

Still, he figures it’s as best as he can get it. No one else seems to be up yet, so he heads to the Black library to try to steady his mind with a bit of familiar research. 

Kreacher’s eyes narrow when he sees Harry, or rather, what Harry is wearing. “Young Master should not be dressing so disgracefully when he goes out on official business,” he sniffs, then adds in an undertone, “even if it _is_ to the filthy, useless Ministry.” 

Harry snorts. He can’t disagree with that. Harry doesn’t notice, but something in Kreacher’s shoulders loosens at his laughter. 

“Kreacher will fetch the Young Master something _proper_ to wear,” he says. Harry nods his thanks, and Kreacher pops away. He returns a moment later holding a set of slightly dusty, but surprisingly well-maintained dress robes. They’re a shade of green that uncomfortably reminds Harry of the Slytherin colors, but even he has to recognize the way that it brings out his eyes.

The robes are a few sizes too big, and Harry notices a small, hand-embroidered tag on the inside of the collar reading _R. Black_ as he puts it on. A quick shrinking charm takes care of the sizing, and he tucks the tag in; he doesn’t want anyone at the Ministry realizing he’s wearing borrowed robes. 

Kreacher surveys him critically, then nods. “Kreacher supposes this is as good as possible,” he says. “The Weasley woman has woken and will soon go looking for the Young Master.” 

Harry nods and heads down to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley seems surprised, yet pleased, to see him already all dressed. “You’ve cleaned up better than I expected,” Tonks tells him. “I wouldn’t have expected you to have such a nice robe after the shabby clothes you’ve been wearing all summer.” 

Harry half-shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Mrs. Weasley puts a plate of food in front of him, and he starts to pick at it, as everyone around him starts giving him bits and pieces of advice on what to do, and what not to do, at the trial. 

At one point, Mrs. Weasley abruptly moves to try to attack his hair with a comb, and Harry has his wand drawn and pointed in her direction before he realizes what’s happened. Mad-Eye Moody nods approvingly, while Lupin just looks sad, and Mrs. Weasley sighs and pats him on the shoulder, saying something about them all being jumpy this morning. 

It’s Harry’s first time in the Ministry, but he’s too nervous to appreciate all of the new sights and sounds very much. If he’s found guilty, he’ll have his wand snapped… how’s he going to protect himself from Voldemort without a wand? 

It seems to Harry like the case should pretty cut and dry; anyone with common sense would realize he used his magic in self-defense. The problem is that most wizards don’t seem to have common sense, and the Ministry has it out for him besides. 

The fact that they change the time and place of the trial and the way that the _entire Wizengamont_ shows up for a simple disciplinary hearing doesn’t help Harry relax, either. 

In the end, it turns out alright. Dumbledore manages to pull through in the end, showing up to Harry’s trial just in the nick of time. He doesn’t some much as glance in Harry’s direction through the entire trial, though. Not even when Fudge finally, reluctantly acquits him. 

That little detail, the way he won’t even look at Harry, makes the wild thing twist in his stomach, beat the insides of his ribcage, gnaw on his bones. 

Honestly, Harry isn’t sure why it bothers him so much. After all, Dumbledore actually managed to save his sorry hide for once. Shouldn’t he be grateful?

Maybe it’s because of how much it reminds him of life at Privet Drive. Not of the Dursleys— attention from the Dursleys is never a good thing— but of the neighbors, pretending they don’t notice the purple-black bruises molting his cheekbone, the blisters on his uncovered, sunscreen less skin as he labors in the sun for the third day in a row, the bloody crescents Aunt Petunia’s nails cut into his forearm that are visible as he counts out the exact change required for a cheap first aid kit at the local Aldi. 

It’s fine, though. It’s fine because Harry is good at swallowing his anger, has been swallowing it for years as smooth as Dudley swallowing the special sweet-flavored medicine Aunt Petunia would get whenever he fell sick. It doesn’t matter; he’s out of there, at least for now. That’s enough; that has to be enough.

Everyone celebrates when he arrives back at Grimmauld Place and they hear the news. They have a special dinner that night, and for once, Harry can relax enough to play Exploding Snap with the others, and not think of Voldemort or Death Eaters once all evening. 

The next morning, though, it’s back to his regular schedule. The whole affair has only confirmed for him that he can’t rely on the Ministry to do anything except make his life more difficult, and judging by the Daily Prophet, quite a bit of the Wizarding World is sticking their heads so far into the sand that they’ll be finding grains in their ears for ages. 

Kreacher seems almost curious about the whole affair, so Harry tells him about it. It ends up devolving into a rant about how _useless_ everyone is being, about how no one seems to be doing anything close to what needs to be done to fight Voldemort. Kreacher listens with a bright, feverish light in his eyes, and at the end of Harry’s rant, he tells Harry there’s someone who he ought to hear about. 

It’s there, among the endless cobwebs and dust motes of the Black library, that Harry hears about Regulus Black, a Death Eater who found out something terrible Voldemort was doing (Kreacher won’t say what, and frankly, Harry doesn’t want to know) and turned against him, dying in the process. Kreacher seems delighted by the frank admiration the tale raises in Harry, and even more by how honored Harry feels by the realization it was _Regulus’_ robe that he’d worn to the Ministry hearing. 

Harry wants to tell Sirius about it, but he’s grown surly and moody with the revelation that Harry will be leaving, after all, and somehow Harry never quite finds the time. Instead, Harry finds himself listening to Kreacher’s stories about Regulus, who he clearly loved dearly. Kreacher even allows Harry to borrow Regulus’s journals, which are full of his notes on various fields of magic. They include runic sequences and simple spells that seem to have been invented by Regulus himself, as well as a great deal of notes on the nature of Dark magic. 

Reading through these journals, Harry feels a bit like he’s speaking to a kindred soul. His own notebook grows fuller, as he copies over bits and pieces from Regulus’ journals that he believes he could use, himself. 

Harry has just finished reading the last of Regulus’s journals when the booklists arrive. Ron and Hermione are made prefect; in a rather embarrassing series of events, Hermione assumes it’s Harry, and Ron seems to think Harry will be jealous. Frankly, Harry is relieved. He imagines being a prefect would only take time away from his training. 

Hiding his feelings behind a blank mask, Harry slides his thumb under his own letter and pulls it open. 

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted…_ Harry blinks, then more rapidly scans down the rest of the letter. It’s… an acceptance letter to Hogwarts, much like the one he’d gotten just before his first year. 

“...what?” Harry asks faintly. 

“Oh, I was just saying that maybe that slimy git will finally decide to actually teach Potions, this year,” Ron repeats himself cheerfully. 

Shaking his head, Harry passes the letter to Ron, who then passes it to Hermione.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Hermione who figures out what’s happened. As it turns out, that letter stating that he’d been expelled from Hogwarts wasn’t just a threat; he really _had_ been expelled. Of course, he’s been acquitted, but magically systems automatically update, so the best they can do is re-enroll him. 

“You’ll have to be re-Sorted as well, I imagine,” Hermione says with a casual wave of her hand. “You’re technically not a part of any house right now— which could explain why you didn’t get—” 

Ron turns a faint shade of pink, and Hermione rushes to apologize, reassuring him that he really does deserve to be prefect. In the meantime, Harry sinks into a nearby chair, his breath catching with panic as he imagines finding himself under the Hat once more… he barely managed to persuade it to put him into Gryffindor the first time, what if—?

“Oh, don’t worry,” Hermione tells him fondly. “I’m sure you’ll get into Gryffindor again, no problem. You’re the bravest person I know— and,” she adds more quietly, “—the most prone to getting into trouble.” 

“That’s hardly his fault!” Ron argues stoutly, and the two soon devolve into merry quarrelling. Slipping the letter into his pocket, Harry heads back to the Black library— if there’s any chance at all that he’ll end up in Slytherin, he needs to brush up on his warding, his shielding charms, his healing magic… on everything, really. 

When Kreacher pops in, Harry tells him about the new turn of events. Upon hearing Harry’s suspicion he may end up in Slytherin this time around, he nods very solemnly, but Harry can see the sparkle of delight in his bulbous eyes, and he can tell Kreacher is suppressing a gleeful smile.

“Oh come on,” Harry says crossly. “Yes, I realize that not every single Slytherin is automatically evil, or anything— I’ve read more than enough of Regulus’ journals that I can’t deny _that_ — but most of them would like nothing more than to see me dead.” He doesn't _really_ think he'll end up in Slytherin, but the thought still won't leave him, lingering at the back of his mind as just another thing on a very long list of things to worry about. 

Kreacher sobers up a bit, at that, and after that, he starts helping Harry by fetching various books for him. 

With so much to do and something to dread, time seems to speed up until it’s positively galloping by, and before he knows it, Harry is on the Hogwarts Express, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he watches the landscape change with every mile they speed closer to the school. He should probably be studying up still, but at this point, it can’t make much difference, and he’s too nervous to concentrate properly. 

There’s Luna on the train with them, at least; her talk of fantastical, unseen creatures and government conspiracies helps the wild beast that’s lingered within him unwind just a bit. 

All of that tension comes rushing back with a vengeance when Malfoy enters their compartment for the traditional Hogwarts Express Malfoy-Potter Confrontation. Harry’s never in the mood for seeing Malfoy’s pinched, gittish face, but especially not this year. 

“Get out,” he says bluntly. He meets Malfoy’s eyes coolly, his stony expression showing Malfoy he’s not in the mood to deal with him. Malfoy, of course, ignores that. 

“You’d better watch your manners, or I’ll be obligated to give you a detention,” Malfoy sneers. “You know, since I, unlike you, have been appointed prefect, which means I, unlike you, have been given the power to deal out punishments.” 

Harry snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, Malfoy. That means so much when we all know that you only got the position because of Daddy dearest. How does it feel to have all of your accomplishments come secondhand from your father? Do you even lace up your shoes yourself, or does your father do that for you, too?” 

Even Hermione hides a laugh behind her hand. 

Malfoy sneers. “Be careful, Potter. My family has the power to make your life very difficult.” 

Harry thinks of Voldemort rising from the cauldron, of Lucius Malfoy bending to kiss the hem of his robes, and laughs, so loud and full that even Malfoy is startled out of his contemptuous expression. “Make my life _difficult_? Right. Because my life is so _easy_ right now.” 

Harry grins, knife-sharp and utterly humorous. “Get out, Malfoy. I have _actual_ problems to deal with.” 

Malfoy stares at him for a split second longer, then turns and leaves. 

Harry turns back to the window, which is being gently spattered by a misty sort of rain. If he gets Sorted into Slytherin, he thinks anxiously, he’ll be stuck in a dorm room with Malfoy. He shudders. He’s glad he learned all of those wards. 

He’s glad, too, that he’s at least allowed to go up to the castle with the others like usual, even if his stress _is_ making him hallucinate some rather disturbing approximations of horses. 

When they reach the castle entrance, Harry half-heartedly tries to blend into the crowd and slip to his usual spot at the Gryffindor table, but Professor McGonagall catches him by the collar and prevents him from leaving. 

With a sigh, Harry moves to stand in the entryway with Professor McGonagall as they wait for the first year. For a while, they simply wait in silence, watching through the window as the rain whips the weathered grey stones of the castle walls. 

At last, Professor McGonagall says, “I am sure you will return to Gryffindor. There’s nothing for you to be anxious about.” 

Harry nods dutifully. Professor McGonagall seems to think he should have something to say in response, but Harry can’t think of anything to add. 

The first years arrive, with Professor Grubbly-Plank at their head. They look very young, and very short, and very nervous. More than a few are sending wide-eyed, curious glances at Harry, and more than one of them is whispering to those around him.

Professor McGonagall leads them to the small chamber off the hall which Harry recognizes from his own Sorting four years ago, and explains about the four houses. After she leaves, there’s a moment of pregnant silence, and then several of the braver first years pounce on Harry with questions. 

“Are you Harry Potter?” a girl with frizzy honey blonde hair demands. 

“Why are you here with us, instead of in the Great Hall?” a sharp-eyed boy asks. 

“D’you know how they Sort us?” another boy lisps. 

Harry raises his hands defensively, feeling a bit swamped. “I can’t answer any of your questions unless you let me talk,” he points out, and they quickly fall silent. 

“Uh… first of all, yes, I am.” There’s a chorus of gasps, and with a sigh, Harry obligingly lifts his fringe to show them the scar. “Second of all… the long story short of it is the Ministry f— uh, messed up, and they accidentally expelled me. They re-enrolled me, but I still have to get Sorted again, since everything automatically updated. As for the Sorting itself…” Harry doesn’t want to spoil the surprise, but he doesn’t want them to be nervous, either. “Let’s say that you don’t need to be scared, and leave it at that.”

Several of the first years grumble in annoyance at his evasive answer, but any further questioning is cut short by Professor McGonagall’s return. They all file in; although malnutrition has stunted Harry’s growth, he’s still a good bit taller than the first years, and when he enters, everyone in the hall spots him. There’s a split second of silence so complete you could hear a pin drop, and then Malfoy laughs raucously and calls, “Potter got sent back to first year!” 

Professor McGonagall hushes everyone, and the Sorting Hat begins to sing. 

Harry is too anxious to pay much attention, but he notices that it seems to have an unusual emphasis on unity and a strangely cynical tint for the usually cheerful Hat. 

There’s a long moment of uneasy silence, and then Professor McGonagall calls the first name— “Abercrombie, Euan”— who turns out to be the boy with the lisp from earlier. He heads to Gryffindor, and Harry claps enthusiastically. 

The Sorting continues, and Harry makes sure to clap whole-heartedly for each first-year no matter what house they end up in. After the last first year is sorted, there’s a long moment of silence where Professor McGonagall seems to consider if she should try to explain the situation with Harry, then finally just says, “Harry Potter.” 

If it’s possible, the stares on Harry somehow grow even weightier. Keeping his face as cool and neutral as though he’s just walking to the fridge for a bite of food, Harry walks up to the stool and sits down; Professor McGonagall drops the hat onto his head, and this time, he’s big enough that it doesn’t slip down over his eyes. This has the unfortunate effect of allowing him to still see the inhabitants of the Great Hall, who are all peering at him in immense interest.

“Oh, my,” the Sorting Hat says, in its withered voice. “It is rare indeed that I get to sit on one student’s head so many times.” 

Harry shifts uncomfortably. He wishes the Hat would just get on with it and put him out of his misery. 

“In that case,” the Sorting Hat says, and then bellows, “SLYTHERIN!” 

There is total and complete silence in the Great Hall, and even among the utterly composed Slytherin upper years, many a jaw has dropped. Harry doesn’t notice any of this, however, too busy furiously thinking, _What the fuck?_

It’s then that the Great Hall is treated to the unseen-before sight of the Sorting Hat dissolving into peals of audible laughter. Many of the students relax, figuring that the Sorting Hat must have been playing some sort of prank. No, the Sorting Hat has never been _known_ to play a prank, but it makes a great deal more sense than _Harry Potter being Sorted into Slytherin._

 _What the hell was that for?_ Harry asks angrily. _Are you mis-sorting me because of that whole shtick about internal divide in the song? Because let me tell you, this will just make things worse._

“Most certainly not,” the Hat sniffs in return. “And it’s not a mis-sorting.” 

_Is it because… because of my connection to Voldemort, then?_ Harry asks, feeling as though he already knows the answer. 

“ _No!_ ” the Hat sounds affronted. “I Sort only on the students’ characteristics, and certainly not upon their enemies. If anything, it is because of your rigorous opposition to Voldemort that I know for certain that Slytherin is where you belong?” 

“ _What?_ ” Harry audibly blurts out. The Great Hall shifts nervously. Maybe it’s _not_ a joke, after all. 

“Think about what you have been doing to fight Voldemort,” the Hat says. “The cunning, the resourcefulness, the ambition that I saw during your first year— all of them have flourished.” 

_By all rights, what I’ve been doing to fight Voldemort should send me to Gryffindor, for the bravery of standing up to him, or Hufflepuff, for my hard work,_ Harry points out. _Or even Ravenclaw, for how much I’m studying._ Anything is better than Slytherin, where most of the house will be out for his blood. _Besides, what’s this about_ ambition _? I’ll have you remember that last year, I tried my hardest to stay out of the Tournament._

“ _Exactly!_ ” The Sorting Hat crows. “Avoiding glory in favor of self-preservation! I dare say none of your so-called ‘fellow’ Gryffindors would have done such a thing— that’s why none of them believed you when you said you hadn’t put your name in! I should have never allowed you to persuade me to Sort you into Gryffindor— you quite clearly belong in SLY—” 

_Wait_ , Harry desperately cuts the Hat off, _Hogwarts bloody well owes me for the thing with the Basilisk. I prevented the school from being closed, and now you’re going to try to get me killed by sending me to Slytherin?_

For the second time that day, and also probably the second time in history, the Hat bursts into laughter. “This attempt at blackmailing me is only further proving my point! Now, GET UP AND GO TO SLYTHERIN!” 

Professor McGonagall pulls the Sorting Hat off of his head. It’s tip is, Harry notes dimly, smoking just a bit. Harry should probably feel guilty, but as he rises to start his long walk towards the staring members of the Slytherin table, he wishes the Hat had been burnt a little bit more thoroughly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is, as I said, pure self indulgence, I have no idea if/when this will update again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has his first interactions with the Slytherins. 
> 
> cw in end notes

At their green-draped table, the Slytherins are watching him, their gazes weighing heavy on Harry’s thin frame. It is the same look, Harry thinks, that the Death Eaters wore as he stood in the graveyard, wand clenched in his sweaty hand and Cedric’s body prone at his feet. It is the look as when they laughed behind their masks, as Voldemort forced him to bow to a man without honor, to _bow to death_. 

Their watching gazes are the same gazes of Roman Senators, silk-clad and lips stained by the grapes their slaves feed them as they peer down at the gladiator who will face death for their amusement; it is the cool gaze of a bored oligarch for whom pain and suffering are as distant as the ever-departing edge of the world where earth meets sky, the gaze of someone who seeks Harry’s weakness, seeks his suffering, seeks his end, because watching him unravel would be, to them, the most delightful of fun. 

There is only one answer Harry has for them.

They look for weakness, so he will show them strength. They look for suffering, so he will show only smooth, unconcerned calm. They look for his end, so he will show them a new dawn beyond the graveyard’s night. 

Harry is almost at the Slytherin table, now. The table seems to be arranged according to age, with the older students sitting closer to the teacher’s table. As he passes, the upperclassmen shamelessly turn their heads to track his progress with eyes that even they can’t keep from widening. 

Perhaps they do not expect him to react with dead-eyed calm as frigid as the bite of a blade. Perhaps they expect flushing anger, expect bluster and bluffing. 

But what does hot-blooded rage serve him? 

Harry’s world is one of scarcity. He does not have time for their frivolities and indulgences. He can only keep what serves him, and the kind of anger that runs warm does not serve him, not anymore. It will not allow him to kill Voldemort— only his new sort of cold, crystalized fury has a chance at that. 

Harry cannot entirely tame the wild thing within, but he can keep it leashed, and use it against his enemies instead of himself. 

Harry’s walk brings him ever closer to the spot at the table where the fifth years sit. From across the table, Malfoy is staring at him, his grey eyes so uncharacteristically wide and disbelieving that Harry can’t help the way his lip twitches. Pansy clings to one of Malfoy’s arms like it’s a lifeline, and either Crabbe or Goyle (Harry can’t tell the difference) is sitting at the other side of him, gaping callously.

As Malfoy continues staring blankly, a fifth year Slytherin whose name Harry doesn’t know moves like going to make room for Harry to sit beside her, but Harry has already turned his head away and continued onward. It would be foolish to purposefully sit so close to Malfoy’s gang; Harry doesn’t fancy being hexed under the table for the rest of the meal, after all. 

Instead, Harry heads to the very end of the table, where the newly Sorted first years sit. He comes to a stop right behind the sharp-eyed boy who had asked why he was with the unsorted first years, instead of with the other Gryffindors at their table. “May I sit here?” Harry asks. 

The boy blinks up at him, then, looking as though he just woke from a dream, nods. There’s an awkward pause, and then a rather inelegant shuffling about as all of the first years to the left of him move down a seat so that there’s an empty place setting for Harry. 

Nodding his thanks, Harry takes his new seat. 

Most people probably think he’s gone insane, but Harry honestly thinks this is the most logical course of action that he can take. The first years are unlikely to be as entrenched in blood supremacy as the upper years, and even if they do try to harm him, Harry can say without any exaggeration or overconfidence that none of them will be able to so much as land a scratch on him.

Harry folds his hands into his sleeves to hide their trembling; he’s found that since he endured Voldemort’s Cruciatus his hands constantly tremble regardless of his emotions, and he doesn’t want to take anyone to take it as a sign of weakness or anxiety. Face as smooth as he can make it, he turns to pointedly regard the teacher’s table at the front of the Great Hall.

As he does, he can’t help but notice the Slytherins’ expressions. Some of the younger students are outright staring at him; when Harry raises his eyebrows, they quickly turn their gazes away, looking abashed. In contrast, even a direct, pointed glance from Harry won’t make the upperclassmen unfurrow their brows, or smooth out the disapproving moues that their lips have twisted into. None look so upset as Malfoy, who is outright scowling at him. Well, let him scowl as much as he likes, Harry reflects dispassionately. It’s not as though his daddy has any influence over _this_.

Up at the front of the Great Hall, Professor McGonagall is still holding the Sorting Hat in her hand, staring blankly at it like she’s never seen it before. Meanwhile, Dumbledore is pale and shocked, and Snape, who is staring down at his plate like he can set it alight through sheer willpower, appears to be trembling with rage. 

Harry’s heart skips as he remembers that Snape is his head of house, now. He _really_ should have burned that damn hat down to the brim. 

Dumbledore seems to come back to himself and manages to regain his composure once more. He stands, smoothing his robes out like he can smooth away Harry’s unfortunate new house along with any wrinkles in the peacock colored velvet. 

“Well,” Dumbledore remarks with impressive steadiness, “I dare say that few among us could have anticipated this newest turn of events. Luckily for us, there are some things in life we can count on to never be sources of surprise or stupefaction, chief among those being the comfort of a hot meal and good company. The house-elves have put together a marvelous welcome feast, and I dare say I have no desire to keep you from it.”

With that, Dumbledore sits down again without so much as a glance in Harry’s direction. 

One tolerable aspect of this new arrangement is that at least the food at Slytherin looks just as good as it had been at Gryffindor; despite what Ron might sometimes seem to think, they do not, it seems, dine on baby’s blood and slime. Harry has been trying to eat more protein and less fatty, sweet food recently, but he can’t resist the allure of his favorite steak and kidney pie and a bit of Hogwarts’ signature treacle tart. He at least adds some roast vegetables on the side so he can _pretend_ that he’s eating healthy. 

A nearby girl is watching him serving himself the roast vegetables with interest, so Harry obligingly passes them over. “Thank you,” she says, her eyes fixed shyly onto her plate. Harry nods in acknowledgment and returns to his own food. 

It’s like that small action was the opening of some sort of seal because a moment later, the sharp-eyed boy Harry sat next to takes a quick, deep breath like a scuba diver about to slip into frigid waters and announces, “I’m Carmen Boyle.” 

Harry nods, bemused, but before he can do much more than that, someone else is speaking up. 

“Lena Nightbloom,” the girl who he had given the roast vegetables says in a quiet voice. Then the dark-skinned girl next to her introduces herself, followed by her blonde-haired friend, and then from there, they move around the table as all of the first years introduce themselves in a dizzying flurry of names. 

Once Harry is pretty sure that they’re all done introducing themselves, he gives a perfunctory nod and says, “Pleased to meet you.” 

There’s a pause long enough that for a minute Harry thinks that’s it, that now he’ll be allowed to simply sit quietly and eat his food while the first years talk about whatever it is first years talk about. Instead, a first year who introduced herself as Jodie Stems breaks the silence to ask, “Do you have any tips for how to succeed? As first years, I mean?” 

Harry’s stomach twists and a bitter taste taints the steak and kidney in his mouth. He shouldn’t so judgmental; these are only first years, after all, and hadn’t he already decided that not all Slytherins were evil? Resolving to be more open-minded towards them, Harry forces some of the tension that has gathered in his shoulders to dissipate and turns his attention toward Stems’ question.

He’s never had anyone younger go to him for advice before, so he doesn’t have any wisdom handily stored up. Instead, he turns his mind back to his own first year, trying to think of ways he could have avoided his mistakes.

“Keep good track of your possessions,” he says, thinking of Neville losing his Remembrall, and of how he’d forgotten the Invisibility Cloak at the top of the Astronomy tower when smuggling Norberta.

Stems nods, looking unsurprised and maybe a little bit disappointed, but Harry doesn’t even notice, too caught up in his thoughts memories. 

“If you break rules, either be sneaky enough not to get caught, or do it for an underlying reason that the professor would agree with; that way they’ll go easy on you,” Harry tells them. It’s a policy that has served him well, as accidentally as he may have been deploying it; he managed to get outright _rewarded_ for both riding his broom unsupervised in flight class and breaking into the third-floor corridor because of that one.

A little bit further up the table, two second year Slytherins exchange glances. “That’s kind of a _Slytherin_ way to think, isn’t it?” one whispers. 

“Also,” Harry continues obliviously, “don’t get mixed up in breaking rules just because someone you want to impress is pressuring you to.” He thinks of how he’d allowed himself to be tricked into showing up to Malfoy’s phony wizard’s duel and stifles a wince. 

“Okay, that sounds more Gryffindorish,” the second year Slytherin tells her friend lowly. She sounds relieved, like the world has turned right side up again.

Among the first years, there’s a long moment’s silence, and then— “...it sounds like you got into a lot of trouble as a first year,” Stems ventures shyly. 

Harry shrugs. “I suppose.” 

“Any other tips?” asks another first year, this time a girl who had introduced herself as Sydney Rooks. “What about classes?” 

“You’ll want to be careful in Poti— actually, I suppose not, since you’re Slytherins,” Harry interrupts himself. He’d forgotten, for a minute, amongst all of his thoughts of his own first year. He swallows, then starts again. 

“Make sure you master all of the concepts in Transfiguration since that class always builds off of what you’ve learned in the previous year; if you don’t learn your foundations properly, it can lead to big problems later on. Professor Flitwick likes students who ask a lot of questions, and Professor Sprout hates it when she thinks people are slacking, so make sure that’s not the first impression she gets of you. Binns is useless— you’re better off studying on your own— and the Defense professors are always shi—” 

Harry cuts himself off. “Er… the Defense professors are…” Harry falls silent, trying to think of a good word for it. 

“You can just say ‘shit’,” a first year named Mateo Burnet says. His lips form around the word ‘shit’ with the delight of someone who hasn’t sworn much in their lives. 

“The Defense professors are almost always the biggest source of danger in Hogwarts,” Harry settles on. He doesn’t notice the circle of sudden quiet spreading out around him at those words, the way many of the nearby Slytherins who had mostly been tuning him out are suddenly turning away from their own conversations to listen to what he’s saying. “You shouldn’t end up alone with _any_ professors if you can help it, and you should look at everything you’re told critically, but that’s doubly— no, _triply_ true with the Defense professors. Whoever the Defense professor is, there’s almost certainly something that they’re hiding, some sort of ulterior motive for why they’d take a job that everyone knows is cursed. Keep that in mind in all of your interactions with them.” 

“...if the job’s really cursed, why don’t they do something about it?” Stems pipes up. 

“Because adults are incompetent fools,” Harry says without thinking. He grimaces as he notices that what seems like half of Slytherin is staring at him. “Er… I’m sure it’s… difficult to unravel, or something. _And_ that the people in charge of removing it are incompetent,” Harry can’t resist reiterating. 

Harry accidentally makes eye contact with a Slytherin upperclassman who is staring at him thoughtfully. Harry turns his head away. “Anyway,” he says, putting down his knife and fork. “What are you looking forward to about your first year of Hogwarts?” 

Blessedly, the first years take the hint and start talking cheerfully about lighter things. To Harry’s relief, the older Slytherins who had begun to stare return to their own conversations as well. Released from his burden, Harry lets his thoughts turn to other, more pressing matters.

The first matter which demands his attention is, of course, warding. Obviously, he’ll want to put down a ward around his bed, but should he also individually ward his trunk, or is just keeping it within the bounds of his bed-ward enough? Hmm… it’s not as though he’s going to be taking it out from under the bed-ward very often, either way. Besides, the trunk already has a password in Parseltongue. That should probably be enough for that, then. 

What about his school bag? The only way to ward a cloth bag with any sort of permanence would involve sewing runes into the inside— and he would probably have to use metal thread. He doesn’t doubt that Dobby could procure some for him, but Harry’s only ever sewn using usual soft thread, and sewing runes with metal thread could take him all night. Is it better to stay up all night so that his school bag is warded, or to get a proper night’s sleep so he’s alert and energized the following day? 

Harry’s stomach twists at the thought of leaving his bag unwarded and vulnerable to tampering. And really, is he really going to get any sleep either way? There’s no way he’ll be comfortable drifting off in the snake pit, even if his bed _is_ warded. He’ll just have to make sure to grab some coffee the next morning. 

Around him, the meal is winding down. At the head table, Dumbledore stands to give his usual speech, but he is rather rudely cut off by the new Defense professor, a pink-clad witch who Harry recognizes from his trial.

Harry grits his teeth as he listens to her little speech; he already has a feeling this year’s professor may be his least favorite yet, and considering he’s had both a _Death Eater_ and someone who literally _had Voldemort on the back of his head_ , that’s really saying something.

Umbridge’s speech finally pulls to a close, and the students around him begin rising from their seats, the first years chattering excitedly about how they’ll soon get to see what the Slytherin common room looks like. Quite without Harry noticing, Malfoy and Parkinson rise and come to stand near the end of the Slytherin table. With an unhappy jolt, Harry realizes that as prefects, they’re here to escort the first years to the dungeons. 

“Potter,” Malfoy says. He seems to be trying to pull up his usual sneer, but it isn’t quite fitting right. “Fancy seeing Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, sitting among the snakes.” 

“You know, Malfoy,” Harry says, “I’ll pay you ten galleons if you can persuade the Hat to put me somewhere other than Slytherin. Hell, I’ll double that if you can get it to Sort me back into Gryffindor.” 

With that, Harry stands and heads towards the exit. 

“What, hoping you can slip back into Gryffindor tower without anyone noticing?” Malfoy calls after him. “I doubt your fat pink portrait will let you in. Like it or not, the Hat has somehow seen fit to place you in our illustrious house, and that means that you’re stuck with us now.”

“Believe me, Malfoy,” Harry replies over his shoulder. “I’m well aware. Like I said, twenty galleons. Think about it.” 

With that, Harry slips through the crowd of students, doing his best to ignore the way that they stare and flinch away from him. At least no one is whispering about him being the Heir of Slytherin— yet. Harry resists the urge to find some wood to knock on. 

Once he’s out of the crowd, he swings his Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders and ducks into a hidden passage he discovered ages ago on the Marauder’s Map. From there, he jogs along dusty corridors until he pops out at the bit of damp dungeon wall that he knows conceals the Slytherin common room. 

Harry hesitates, staring at the mossy stones. He had been planning to slip in behind some of the Slytherins, but none of them appear to have arrived yet; in his haste not to be late, Harry had actually gotten there far before he meant to. 

It really would be nice to get in a little bit early, Harry thinks; it would allow him even more time to set up his wards. 

Glancing around quickly to be sure that no one is nearby, Harry opens his mouth and commands, “ _open._ ”

A door in the wall reveals itself and slides open; Harry ducks inside, glad that there doesn’t seem to be anyone in the common room to see. Behind him, the door closes with an ominous-sounding _click_ ; Harry swallows and reminds himself that by all logic if Parseltongue was enough to get him _in_ , it will be more than enough to get him _out_.

Harry has already seen the Slytherin common room once before, but back when he’d snuck in under Polyjuice, he hadn’t been able to really look around at it without blowing his cover. Now, he can take the time to examine everything properly. 

Unlike the round Gryffindor common room, the Slytherin common room is an elongated rectangular shape that extends partially under the Black Lake. The walls of the eastern part of the room are punctuated with intricate gothic style windows, complete with what appear to be window seats. Harry can just imagine that they would be a perfect place to sit and watch the lake; if not for the company he would be forced to keep by doing so, he could imagine making one of them his new study spot.

Overhead, a huge glass dome reaches into the lake, allowing dapples of green-tinted light to dance along the dark wood of the room’s high-backed chairs and long bookshelves. Long bookshelves that, Harry can’t help but think, must hold a great many fascinating books with just the sort of knowledge he needs to fight Voldemort. Under an ornate mantlepiece in the shape of a coiled serpent, a fire hisses and pops in a way that could almost be interpreted as welcoming.

Devoid of potential enemies, the common room feels… surprisingly peaceful. Then again, Harry thinks wryly, it's clear that his tastes have grown warped since by the end of the summer he’d begun to find Grimmauld Place’s resentful halls almost _charming_. 

Harry shakes himself out of his thoughts; it’s a bad idea to linger, and on any account, he needs to find the fifth year dorm so he can ward his bed. He yanks his gaze away from the tempting rows of books and starts skimming the walls for any other doors. 

It takes a bit of looking around but he manages to find a hallway that seems to branch off into the various boys’ dormitories. A little bit more than halfway down the hallway is a door of dark wood which bears an elegant nameplate reading _Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy, & Harry Potter_. Harry’s eyebrows rise involuntarily— he _knows_ there are more Slytherins in his year than that. 

It abruptly occurs to him that having multiple dorm rooms would be just like the smarmy, overprivileged gits, and sure enough, a glance to the left reveals another dorm, this one with a plaque reading _Gregory Goyle, Theodore Nott, & Vincent Crabbe_. Rolling his eyes, Harry puts his hand to the door of his new dorms and gently pushes it open. 

The room within surprisingly similar to his own dorm back in Gryffindor Tower, if devoid of his dorm’s mess of unpaired socks, lost homework, and dirty clothes. The walls are bare of Ron’s bright orange Chudley Cannons banners and Dean’s football posters, of the pictures of his friends that Seamus had Spellotaped everywhere. And, of course, it’s clad in green and silver instead of red and gold. 

Harry steps a little further inside, looking around curiously. On top of having fewer dormmates, it looks like the Slytherins also have bigger dorm rooms in general— this is the most expansive dorm Harry’s ever seen. He supposes that the dungeons have more room than Gryffindor does. 

Harry shakes himself. It’s not like it matters much either way. Putting his thoughts on the dorm room aside, he turns to try to figure out which bed will be his. 

As it turns out, his trunk is positioned in front of the four-poster bed that is (he grimaces) the farthest from the door. Harry kneels in front of it and hisses “ _Jamesss and Lily_ ”. There’s a cascade of soft clicks and whirs from the locking mechanism on his trunk, and then the worn lid of his trunk falls open.

Unlike in years past, the interior is quite neat; Harry’s preteen habit of being as messy as humanly possible just for the sheer delight of not being forced into cleanliness by Aunt Petunia has waned and he’s begun to keep his things methodically organized, just because of how much easier it makes his life. 

Harry grabs his notebook and slips the penknife that he uses to keep his quills sharp from the cheap pouch he keeps it in. After a moment’s thought, he grabs the bookbag he’ll be carrying his things in, as well. That done, Harry closes the lid behind him and shoves the trunk fully under his bed before sitting down on the almost excessively soft sheets of the bed that’s been assigned to him.

Even with the room empty around him, Harry feels painfully exposed. A quick flip of his wand has the thick green curtains snapping shut, and he finds himself letting out a little sigh of relief. He may not have any wards up, but just having a physical barrier between him and any potential enemies makes him feel a little bit better. 

Harry flips his notebook open to the page where he’d carefully plotted out the best runic sequence he’ll use to ward his bed. He can’t help but run over it just one more time, making sure that he won’t be making any silly mistakes. That done, he unfolds his penknife, checking the sharpness on the pad of one of his fingers; a bead of blood wells up instantly, thick and ruby red. 

Satisfied, Harry rises to sit on his haunches so that he can reach the very top of the headboard. He glances down at the first rune to make sure he knows exactly what it looks like, and then takes his knife to the wood. The wood is dense and hard, and it feels like the penknife is making about as much impact in the wood as his fingernail would, but Harry grits his teeth and presses on, going over it again and again until he’s finally satisfied with its depth. 

Harry has just finished engraving the first rune and is shaking the cramps out of his hand when he hears the door open and two sets of approaching footsteps. 

“—no way it Sorted him here of its own free will,” Malfoy says. “If you ask me, this is some sort of ploy by Dumbledore; he’s trying to butt his head into Slytherin’s inner workings.” 

Zabini hums thoughtfully but doesn’t reply. Harry hears a sound that he thinks must be Malfoy flopping back onto his bed, and then he says, “I know you’ve got some sort of comment by that face you’re making. Spit it out, then.” 

Zabini speaks, his voice low and surprisingly smooth. “I don’t think Dumbledore arranged this, since he looked as shocked as anyone else there. Besides, it's clear if you think it through that this would, in reality, be an idiotic move to make. There’s no way a bullheaded Gryffindor like Potter would be able to make any sort of political change in Slytherin. It’s only going to make the other houses even more suspicious of him than they already are; Potter being here is a net negative for Dumbledore.” 

“What, so you think Potter _actually_ belongs here?” Malfoy snorts. “That the Hat looked at him and said—” he affects a whispery voice that sounds disturbingly similar to the Hat’s, “—‘Potter, you’re the most ambitious and resourceful student since Salazar Slytherin himself, I have no choice but to send you to the House of the Snakes’?”

“No,” Zabini replies, “I think the Hat Sorted him here for its own reasons. It had been singing about house unity before the Sorting, hadn’t it?” 

Harry shakes himself and turns back to the headboard. Another quick wave of his wand raises a one-way silencing charm which will let in sound from outside, but not let out sound from within; he returns to his work, keeping half an ear on the conversation Zabini and Malfoy are having. 

“Sending Potter to Slytherin in the hopes of ‘improving house unity’ does sound like the sort of inane thing a faulty old enchantment would come up with,” Malfoy muses. It’s the closest Harry’s ever heard to him admitting that he could have been wrong about something. 

Zabini hums. “Did you see Professor Snape’s reaction?” he asks lightly. 

When Malfoy speaks next, Harry can tell just by the tone of voice that he’s smirking. “Yes, I did. I dare say that Potter won’t be enjoying any more of the sort of favoritism that McGonagall showered on him.” 

A frisson of ice creeps through Harry, like freezing water expanding outward to crack stone. For a moment, he wants to rage helplessly, a wild thing thrashing in its cage, but he bites his anger back and concentrates on the runes that he’s carving. 

“Do you think that Dumbledore’s view of him will change, then?” There’s a rustling sound like Malfoy just rolled onto his stomach. In a thoughtful, light voice, he adds, “It’s a rather interesting philosophical question. Which is stronger, Dumbledore’s adoration for his precious Boy-Who-Lived, or his hatred of Slytherins?” 

“That’s assuming he doesn’t believe that it was the Sorting Hat going rogue,” Zabini replies. “It’ll be just like with the Triwizard Tournament; all of the blame will slide off of Potter’s back like ink off of augurey feathers. If we’re lucky, Dumbledore will twinkle a bit disapprovingly at him, and that will be it.” 

Malfoy sighs. “I suppose I can’t get _everything_ that I would like,” he says mournfully. 

Harry wants to snort. He doesn’t think Malfoy would know deprivation if it slapped him across the face. It reminds him of Dudley, complaining of being hungry when he really just wanted sweets for the taste of them and not to appease the same sort of yawning emptiness Harry used to carry in his belly each day like familiar chains. 

His last rune finally finished, Harry lifts the penknife from the wood and slashes it across his hand. Blood oozes out, viscous and thick, a color richer and more full than even the most distinguished wine. For a moment, Harry can think only of _blood of the enemy, forcibly taken_ , and the coldness of the glass vial pressed against his arm, collecting his lifeblood as it drains from him. 

“Well,” Malfoy says in a resigned tone, “I suppose I had better hunt down the Boy Wonder before he—” 

Harry doesn’t hear what he’s supposedly going to do if he’s left alone without Malfoy to babysit him, because he’s too busy raising his dripping hand and slamming it into the headboard. There’s a rush of heat, and the runes glow like embers who sleep lightly and dream of fire. In the same instant, there’s a shockwave of force spreading outward, making his ears pop like he’s just changed elevations. 

In the wake of that, Harry supposes there’s no point in staying behind his curtains, even if it _is_ funny to think of Malfoy wandering the dungeons looking for Harry all night. He sweeps the curtain open with the hand that isn’t dripping blood. 

Malfoy’s gone the milky, blue-tinted shade of skim milk, but Harry is too busy moving quickly so as not to bleed on the purebloods’ nice wooden flooring to notice. With his left hand closed and out of the way to try to keep from dripping too much, he touches his trunk and thinks _Jamesss and Lily_ as loudly and clearly as he can. The lid swings open, and he replaces his penknife and notebook with the set of clothes that he usually wears to bed. 

Another tap and the trunk closes. Harry rises, his left hand still held just a little bit apart, and heads to the bathroom door. Despite his best efforts, beads of blood still gleam on the floor like dropped jewels.

Malfoy and Zabini watch him go, their eyes weighing heavy on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: self inflicted cuts, although not for the purpose of self-harming; graphic depiction of blood; referenced child neglect and child abuse
> 
> I'm still not making any promises I'll necessarily write more of this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry begins his first day as a Slytherin at Hogwarts.

Sewing runes into his school bag with metal threads is difficult and rather painful work, but it doesn’t take as long as Harry had initially anticipated. By a quarter past midnight, Harry has developed the beginnings of blisters on the pads of his fingers, gained several cuts from where the rough metal thread sliced him, and is in possession of a school bag that could withstand a small-to-moderately-large nuclear detonation. With a grim, satisfied smile playing about his lips, Harry settles in to try to get a bit of sleep. 

In the end, the most he manages is a shallow doze. He startles awake at every suspicious noise, hand immediately jolting under the pillow to clasp around his wand; even the protection of his blood-infused ward scheme isn’t enough to make him feel truly secure. 

Then again, would anything? 

After what seems like an eternity spent tossing and turning, Harry at last manages to fall into a more sustained slumber—only to find himself waking quite irrevocably at half-past five, on the dot. He doubts he’ll be able to fall back asleep; a lifetime of Aunt Petunia’s sharp raps and shrill yelling has left him thoroughly conditioned to wake up early and _stay_ awake. Besides, after the turbulent night that he’s just endured, Harry has little interest in attempting a lie-in anyway. 

Harry rolls out of his bed and dresses quickly, shoving his glasses onto his nose and holstering his wand in the scratched leather sheath that Mad-Eye gave him. On light feet, he fetches his broom. The varnished wood is a familiar texture under his fingers; for a moment, Harry thinks of Sirius, his stomach twisting uncomfortably as he wonders about his godfather’s response— but no, agonizing over that is a waste of his time. It’s not as though it will gain him anything, not as though raging against the unfairness of it all will change a thing. So instead of lingering on thoughts of Sirius, Harry props his Firebolt over his shoulder and heads out to the Quidditch pitch.

When Harry was first placed onto the team in his first year, Oliver Wood’s unquenchable Quidditch-mania and his own Dursley-fueled desire to placate everyone around him had resulted in Harry suffering from an unholy level of anxiety surrounding his Quidditch skills. Continually stressed about if he was good enough, Harry had quickly gotten into the habit of going flying every morning as a way to get in just a little bit more practice time. 

Quidditch has become less important to him since then, but the habit has stayed. Harry’s found that these early morning flights serve as a sort of catharsis— a way to help him stay sane in a school (and society) that decidedly is not. Even last year, when Quidditch itself was banned, Harry still went gliding around the grounds with religious regularity; it was the only time he felt like something approaching himself.

It’s been a long time since he was last able to go flying, especially on a proper pitch, and it feels incredible to stretch his wings again. Pulling into a tight corkscrew, Harry lets out a whoop of sheer, raw joy as he wheels rapidly towards the ground. Just before he flattens himself into a fleshy pancake on the pitch, he pivots upwards, passing close enough to the ground that he can run his fingers through the dew-strewn grass. 

Shaking the water from his hand, he soars up, up, up through the crisp morning air until he reaches a decent height, whereupon he comes to a stop and stares absently down at the ground below as he thinks. 

Harry hadn’t had the foresight to bring his notebook along with him, but honestly, even if he had, he doesn’t think most of his notes on aerial combat would be very useful; Harry’d been mostly covered the logistics of dogfighting which, while certainly possible on brooms, operates on the assumption that both combatants will be in the air. Harry doubts that any of his opponents will have the foresight to engage him in such a way; instead, he suspects that, at least initially, the use of brooms in magical combat will primarily be against opponents on the ground. 

Harry flattens himself to the handle of his broom and dives, hurtling towards the grass of the pitch at such a speed that the wind whipping his face forces tears to well in his eyes. Grinning with adrenaline, he rolls off his broom, lands lightly on his feet, and jogs across the pitch to the Gryffindor changing room.

The key’s in the usual place, and Harry’s hands still remember how to jimmy the lock so it doesn’t stick. He jams his shoulder into the frame and the door opens with a creak of protest that indicates it’s the first time someone’s entered it since Dumbledore told them there would be no Quidditch at the opening feast the previous year. 

The locker room looks about the same as always; the same stained shower towers, the same dusty old chalkboard, and, yes, the same wrinkled stack of parchment and rumpled quill that Wood had used to write down long-term strategy ideas. 

Silently promising to replace them once he has a chance, Harry grabs the parchment and ink and hurries back out again, locking the door behind him. 

There are three Quidditch hoops at each end of the pitch; Harry’d rather not waste his time weaving back and forth between the two sides, so he’ll just use the northern end. That means he’ll be facing three opponents— or rather, mimicries of three opponents. He figures there are three good targets on any wizard— the head, the chest, and the wand hand. He can’t really approximate the placement of the wand hand, so he’ll just go with the chest and the head for now. 

After Harry draws six targets, he attaches them to the poles of the Quidditch hoop at about the height they would be on an actual person. Once he’s satisfied with their placement, he heads back up into the air, rising until he thinks he’d be far enough away to avoid spellfire if his targets really were wizards. 

Not for the first time, Harry curses his bad eyesight. He can’t make out any of the rings of the targets, only the pale flash of parchment where they flap in the wind. Facing off against a real opponent, he won’t even have that much indication; it’s not as though his opponents will helpfully color code their outfits so they’re wearing clearly visible white hats and shirts when they fight. 

Harry draws closer again. He’ll just have to adjust his strategy and plan to dodge instead of simply staying out of range. It’ll be challenging to practice the dodging aspect, since he can’t imagine either Ron or Hermione being willing to wake up at half-past five in the morning to go throw spells at him, but he’s sure he’ll be able to figure some sort of solution out. 

Sometimes, Harry thinks with a grimace, he finds it a bit ironic that someone with such bad eyesight plays seeker. Then again, the truth is that he doesn’t locate the snitch so much by keen eyesight as by his ability to track movements with unerring accuracy, a skill he learned at the tender hands of Dudley Dursley. With that skill in mind, it may actually be easier for him to aim at live targets than these stationary facsimiles. 

Either way, now is hardly the time to think about it. Putting those thoughts aside for later, Harry draws his wand and starts casting down at his imagined foes.

Sometime later, Harry heads back into the castle with his broom over his shoulder and a pocketful of charred parchment targets tucked in his pocket. 

The halls are empty, filled with the kind of thick, deep quiet that can be only built on the slumber of a thousand dreaming children curled up in their beds. Without anyone around to stare at him or whisper behind their hands, Harry lets his steps slow, lets himself trail his hand along the dimpled castle wall with a soft touch like a son greeting his mother with a chaste kiss on her cheek.

His steps slow even further as he enters the dungeons. His hand drops from the wall and some of the warmth and vitality brought to him by fresh air and the pale, white-wine sunlight of the pre-dawn leaves him. Still, when he reaches the entrance he squares his shoulders and hisses _open_ under his breath instead of simply turning and fleeing like he wants to. 

A quick glance around shows that the common room is empty. Placing each step carefully, Harry creeps over to the library and skims the various titles— _the Influence of the Moors on the Magic of the Iberian Peninsula_ , _An Exhaustive Encyclopedia of Edicts Effecting Edinborough_ , and (Harry grimaces) _Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. He’s just about to turn away in frustration and disgust when his eye catches on another book: _Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies_. 

Harry is about to take a closer look when he hears the tell-tale sound of footsteps behind the door to the girl’s dorms. Shoving the book into his bag, he hurries back into his dorm room. 

As far as he can tell, his new— Harry’s mouth twists with disgust— _dorm mates_ are still asleep. Harry puts his broom away, along with his new book, which he covers with the dust jacket from _Quidditch Through the Ages_. He doesn’t want any of the Slytherins to start harassing him about stealing from their library or anything like that; he has enough problems as it is. That done, Harry grabs some clean clothes and heads to the showers. 

Just like everything else in the dorm, the bathroom is disarmingly pleasant; the facade of hospitality almost reminds Harry of the vague, pleasant fog the Imperius curse brought— the same fog that Harry had never been foolish enough to trust. 

Inset in the smooth walls are several clean, creamy-tiled showers, along with a tub big enough for even the tallest seventh year to lay down stretched all of the ways out in. Hanging on the wall adjacent to the showers are the kind of sinfully fluffy towels that Aunt Petunia would have punished him for touching, as well as a full cabinet of expensive-looking shampoos, conditioners, and soaps. The whole thing makes him feel very small and grubby and brings to mind the shame that always rose in him when he saw other schoolchildren in their nice, clean clothing with their smooth, silky hair and their chubby little faces scrubbed pink by their soft-handed mothers. It’s not a good feeling, and Harry has to take a minute to banish it before he can turn his attention back to the task at hand. 

Figuring that the toiletries are owned by his dorm mates and, again, hardly wanting to be accused of thievery, Harry grabs the bar of soap from the bathroom sink. It’s still unnervingly fancy; it’s the sort of thick, creamy soap that Aunt Petunia might splurge on as a treat, and there are little pinkish-reddish bits of what Harry thinks must be some sort of flower mixed in it, but, well, Harry knows that the Slytherins are snobbish enough that this is the best he’s going to get. Soap in hand, Harry heads to the shower stall with the best view of the entrance and turns on the water. 

Water pours from the showerhead in a hot, steady stream. The pressure and temperature are just right, so perfect that Harry is sure there must be some sort of enchantment on the shower in some fashion or another. He can’t help but let out a slow sigh of pleasure the hot water thuds into his tense, knotted shoulders, although he still isn’t fool enough to close his eyes. 

After lingering in the shower for long enough that Aunt Petunia would surely pinch him black and blue if she ever found out, Harry reluctantly steps out and, instinctively avoiding the fluffy, thick towels hung nearby, pulls on his school uniform. 

His dorm mates are still asleep, so Harry quietly packs his school bag; after a long, reluctant moment, he leaves his notebook full of strategies behind. Even with his bag warded, he’s simply not comfortable bringing it out; there’s too much chance Malfoy will realize from his behavior that it’s important to him and snatch it out of his hands out of sheer spite. Harry will have to ward it as soon as he can so that he can work in it whenever he likes, and not just when he can be sure that Malfoy and the other Slytherins aren’t nearby. 

Bag slung over his shoulder, Harry heads into the common room. As he does, he hums a muggle song he used to hear on the Dursleys’ telly and absently shakes his wet hair off of his collar with a little flick of his neck. His strides are long and loose; although still characterized by the habitual lightness that life at Number Four, Privet Drive has instilled in him, his posture is straight and confident, and he moves with the practiced grace of someone who never had the luxury of a sedentary life. 

That is, all of those things are true until Harry happens to look up and notice the dozen or so Slytherins arrayed across the room, all of whom, it seems, are watching him. Harry’s voice dies in his throat, and he feels the abrupt urge to smash the glass wall behind him and go take a dip in the Great Lake. The mermaids hadn’t been so bad, right? Sure, they had attacked him and all, but at least they’d been upfront about it instead of _staring_ at him like _he’s_ the weird one. 

Shaking off their lingering gazes, Harry heads to a nearby couch. He intends to sit down gracefully, but somewhere along the way, the fatigue from, well, _everything_ catches up with him all at once, and he more collapses onto it than sits. He can _feel_ the Slytherins’ staring intensifying, and he bites back a groan only through sheer effort. 

Too late, Harry realizes that he _really_ should have a cast glamour over himself. Most of the parts of him that he wants to conceal are already covered by his robes, but not all of them. There’s still the dark circles undoubtedly forming under his eyes, and the hollowness that hasn’t quite left his cheeks, and although of course it’s pointless to glamour away the existence of his lightning bolt scar, Harry’s found that it helps if he at least conceals how red it gets, sometimes. It’s too late now, though; he’ll just have to remember for tomorrow.

Harry allows himself a moment longer, and then he forces himself upright into something approximating a sitting position. He pulls out the disguised copy of _Dirty, Underhanded, and Downright Foul Tips for Thwarting Your Enemies_ that he’d filched from the Slytherin library earlier and flips to the first page; without his notebook, he won’t be able to take notes, but he _did_ steal a set of post-its along with Dudley’s old notebook, so he can mark all of the pages of interest for later and hopefully, that will help him remember all of his ideas. 

Harry can tell just from the table of contents that this is going to be an _excellent_ book but, before he can so much as open the first chapter, there’s a movement in his peripheral vision. Harry flicks his eyes over, already sure it has nothing to do with him, just in time to see Zabini cutting a clear path across the room to him. Harry had noticed that he was out in the common room— it had been hard not to, when Zabini had been one of the Slytherins staring the hardest at him— but he had been _hoping_ that Zabini would leave him alone. 

“Good morning,” Zabini says, once he’s reached Harry.

His voice is just as smooth and cultured as it had been the night before; a smooth, low timber that instinctively makes anyone listening wish he would never fall silent. Harry, on the other hand, automatically hates it on the basis that things around him are never pleasant, and anything that _seems_ pleasant is thus both _un_ pleasant and also lying. 

Harry realizes that he’s been quiet for a touch longer than is socially acceptable, and forces himself to flatly repeat “...good morning,” back to his unwelcome visitor. Even Harry can make out the wariness edging his voice like the bristle of the serrations on a blade.

In a smooth, casually elegant movement, Zabini sits down beside him on the couch. Harry tenses, eyes darting to Zabini’s wand hand quickly; his own hand creeps up his sleeve, finger curling as he prepares to flick his wrist and draw his wand.

Zabini either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because his long-fingered hands are loose and empty where they dangle from the edge of the couch. His voice conveys that same baffling relaxation as he speaks. “I wanted to apologize for the incident last night. I had not realized you were in the room, otherwise—” 

Harry can’t prevent himself from laughing. Zabini’s eyebrows rise, thick and graceful and as utterly bewildering as the rest of him. 

In the wake of that disapproving eyebrow raise, Harry tries to compose himself. He even opens his mouth to try to explain himself, but as soon as he does, he’s folding over again, devolving into peals of laughter. 

Harry takes a deep breath and speaks. “Sorry, it’s just—” He wipes away a tear of mirth, “just— j—” Harry loses the battle and promptly collapses into laughter once more. Maybe it’s just how tired he is, but this entire situation is just so _absurd_ that he’s looped right around from terrified to utterly unconcerned and _entirely_ amused. 

Zabini’s aristocratic face with its high, elegant cheekbones and handsome features is wrinkled in a mixture of shock and confusion; for some reason, the expression sends Harry into a new fit of hysterics strong enough that his skinny body is actually convulsing with laughter.

In the end, Harry has to whack himself on the chest several times to avoid choking and prevent himself from laughing any further. Still grinning, he takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and admits, “I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in _years_.” 

Zabini is staring at him with an unreadable expression; with the ease of long practice, Harry cheerfully disregards it. Instead, he tucks his book back into his bag and, stifling a yawn behind a minutely trembling hand, leaves the Slytherin common room behind. 

It feels odd heading to the Great Hall so early in the morning; usually Harry waits until Ron is ready and heads down with him. The halls contain a sparse scattering of students in an odd compromise between the peaceful silence Harry enjoys when he heads out flying very early in the morning, and the chaotic bustle he’s used to at the normal time he goes down to eat breakfast. 

The Great Hall itself is similarly underpopulated, likely because there isn’t even any food on the tables yet. The only professor at the high table is a witch with high, broad cheekbones and long dark hair who Harry is pretty sure teaches Arithmancy; the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables each have a few bare clumps of upperclassmen, and that is the sum total residency. The only person Harry recognizes in the hall is Luna, whose pale, gleaming head is bent over the Quibbler. 

Harry is about to start over to her when he hears a familiar voice gasp out, “—Harry?” 

He turns and gets a brief glimpse of bushy hair and brown eyes before Hermione is pulling him into her arms, one of her frizzy curls tickling his nose as she squeezes him to within an inch of his life

After a long moment, Hermione pulls back, examining his face closely. Harry’s hypothesis about needing a glamour is clearly right because whatever she sees is enough to make her tut disapprovingly. For a moment, Harry worries she’s going to pick up right where she left off during her summer lectures about taking care of himself and processing his emotion in healthy ways and all that rot, but luckily, she doesn’t say a word, just frowns a little and loops her arm through his as they start walking to the Gryffindor table. 

“You’re not angry?” Harry can’t help but ask. 

“No,” Hermione tells him. “I was surprised at first, of course— you’ve always seemed like such a textbook Gryffindor, you know, with the….” she waves her hands around vaguely, “—but… I was thinking, and, well.” She lowers her voice. “You’ve been being very resourceful and cunning, this summer, when it comes to, well, you know. Not that’s a bad thing!” she quickly reassures him. “In fact— well, frankly, I think that it’s a good thing. Defeating— defeating You-Know-Who is a very lofty goal, and so it makes sense that you’re becoming more ambitious and, well, Slytherin. And…” 

Hermione hesitates and then forges onwards in a low whisper. “And honestly? I think you might be able to learn something from it. Even if a lot of what the Slytherins _do_ is awful and immoral and terrible, they… they know a _lot_ about politics and how to achieve their goals and things like that and… I think that you might be able to learn something from being in Slytherin. As uncomfortable and lonely as it is,” she adds quickly. 

Harry nods. He thinks that Hermione just might be right; hadn’t he come across an incredibly useful book about fighting dirty that he would never have been able to access if not for being in Slytherin now? There may be more books like that, interspersed between the thick tomes on genealogy and books on etiquette from the fourteenth century. He’ll do well to spend his energy figuring out what he can get out of this new arrangement, instead of what he might lose. 

“What about Ron?” Harry asks hesitantly. “Is he…” he trails off, unable to give voice to his fears. 

Hermione bites her lip, making Harry’s heart sink like a stone. “Well,” Hermione explains hesitantly, “he certainly wasn’t _happy_ at first— but it’s clear that he realizes this isn’t your fault.” Even though there’s no one close enough to hear them, she lowers her voice as she continues. “A lot of students seem to think that the Hat put you in Slytherin because of what it was saying about unity during the song— which I think is ridiculous, the Hat would never Sort someone somewhere it didn’t think they belonged— and Ron agrees with them wholeheartedly. He’s sure the whole thing is a mistake, and that Professor Dumbledore will sort it out quickly, and you’ll be back in Gryffindor in no time.” 

“...and do _you_ think Dumbledore will be able to put me back in Gryffindor?” Harry asks. As he speaks, there’s a cascade of low, quiet popping and dishes begin to appear around them. Harry picks up a piece of toast and begins to methodically shred it into tiny, crumbling pieces.

Hermione hesitates. “Well… it was pretty clear that you were arguing with the Hat, judging by the way it had to tell you to go to Slytherin _twice_. I was reading in _Hogwarts, a History_ last night, and the final judgment on where a student goes really is up to the Hat— so unless Professor Dumbledore has something really convincing to say to the Hat, beyond the arguments you already made…” 

“So no, then,” Harry says glumly. He’d reasoned and begged and threatened, but his words seemed to have crested over the Hat with about the same impact as a wave destroying itself on the ocean cliffs. He doubts Dumbledore will fare any better. 

Hermione opens her mouth like she’s about to try to reassure him, but she’s interrupted by the opening of the doors of the Great Hall. What must be half of Slytherin pours in, all green ties and perfectly pressed school robes and smooth soft skin. Harry can already feel their gazes heavy and sticky as honey coating his skin; he suppresses a shiver and thrusts his shoulders back into the military-straight posture that Aunt Petunia had demanded he assume whenever she was forced to be seen in public with him. 

“I’ll talk to you later,” Harry tells Hermione shortly. He shoves his toast aside, brushes off the crumbs clinging to his fingers, and pulls his school bag over his shoulder. Hermione’s brow furrows and Harry can tell she’s chewing on the inside of her lip, but she only nods. 

“Good luck out there, Harry,” she says quietly. She grabs his hand and gives it a quick squeeze. “I’m here if you need me.” 

Harry nods. “...thank you,” he says. Then he slips his hand out of hers and heads for the exit— only to collide with Professor McGonagall as he tries to leave. 

“Mr. Potter.” Just like with Hermione, McGonagall doesn’t seem happy with whatever she sees in his face; her thin, stiff lips turn down disapprovingly as her eyes flick over his face. “I am afraid that I must ask you to return to your House table so that I and your other professors can properly distribute the class schedules.” 

It sounds like bullshit to Harry— why can’t Professor McGonagall just give him the class schedule right now?— and he’s about to tell her so but… it’s hardly as if it’s worth the breath. Instead of giving voice to his thoughts, he just nods shortly and spins on his heel. 

For whatever reason, none of the first years are among the newly arrived Slytherin students. That’s fine: Harry will just sit with the second years. However, when he approaches the nearest second year, a petite girl with an oddly familiar facial structure and dark, wavy hair, she tells him that she’s saving the seat for someone else and that there’s an empty seat for him next to her sister. 

“Your sister?” Harry echoes. 

“Daphne Greengrass,” she tells him, and then nods to the blonde-haired girl who had seemed to be offering a seat to him, the night before. 

Harry laughs softly. Whoever said that Slytherins were subtle clearly just wasn’t paying attention. “Well,” he says. “Thanks anyway.” 

Now to figure out what to actually do. Maybe just sit at the end of the table, alone? That will fulfill Professor McGonagall’s requirement of him being at the Slytherin table, after all. Or he could— 

A familiar arm loops around his shoulder, and a warm hand ruffles his hair. “Harry!” a familiar voice crows. “Our favorite little Dark Lord!” 

“Fred,” Harry sighs, turning. 

“Actually,” George informs him, “ _I’m_ Fred.”

“And I,” Fred tells him, “am _George_.” 

Harry rolls his eyes. Fred has a different freckle pattern than George, he doesn’t know why they even bother— or why it works on so many people. “What do you two want?” 

“Nothing much, just wanted to congratulation you on your new House!” Fred grins. 

George pulls Harry in closer and whispers, “and to remind you that if you need anything—” 

“And we mean _anything_ , Fred interjects. “Maiming, removal of Pureblooded knee caps, the works—” 

“—just tell us.” George smirks, his teeth a bright ivory gleam against his freckled face. “After all,” he adds in that same low whisper, “we can hardly lose our first, best investor, can we?” 

With one last ruffle of his hair, the twins head back to the Gryffindor table, leaving Harry standing awkwardly in the middle of the Great Hall, his hair mussed up and his decision about where, exactly, to sit no closer to being made than before. 

Harry absently and fruitlessly attempts to pat his hair down. “I thought the Weasley twins _hated_ Slytherins,” he can hear one of the second years say as he does so. “My brother told me to watch out for them. That they can be really nasty.” 

Harry’s eyes flick over to the speaker, who promptly goes white and falls silent at once. She’s a skinny girl with a mass of curly auburn hair, almost as thick as Hermione’s but a good deal less frizzy. Maybe it’s that reminder of Hermione, but Harry can’t find it within himself to be angry at her, not the way she seems to expect. 

She’s just a child, after all. Just eleven or twelve. 

“If they are,” Harry says instead. “If they do something they shouldn’t to someone who doesn’t deserve it— tell me.” 

The girl’s mouth actually drops open, and she looks positively stunned. 

“Do you truly mean that?” Daphne Greengrass’s little sister asks, her cultured voice politely skeptical. 

“I’m not much for bullying,” Harry says, his eyes inadvertently sliding up the table to where Draco Malfoy is sitting. 

For a moment, silence hangs in the air, stretched thin and taut. And then the doors to the Great Hall open once more, and the other half of Slytherin House enters— all of the first years, with a few prefects out in front of them, and a mixture of students from the other years. 

“Excuse me,” one of the prefects says, “Would you mind sitting down? You’re standing in the path.” 

Behind him, Jodie Stems waves at him a bit shyly. 

Harry flashes as much of a smile as he can muster at Stems, then nods curtly to the prefect.

Steps heavy with reluctance, he approaches the spot where the fifth year Slytherins are sitting. Just as the younger Greengrass sister had said, there’s a seat waiting for him in between Daphne Greengrass and Blaise Zabini. 

Harry hesitates for a long moment, then slides into his given seat. 

“Good morning,” Daphne Greengrass says. Her voice is sweet and low, with a melodious note to it. Just like with Zabini, Harry immediately distrusts it on the basis of how pleasant it sounds. 

“Good morning,” Harry returns tersely. 

“My name is Daphne Greengrass,” she says.

Harry nods. “Yes, your sister told me.” 

There’s a long moment of quiet. Greengrass opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, then closes it again and simply dips her head in a nod. Harry smiles, dry and humorless, and begins serving himself breakfast. He goes for the lightest fare he can; fried tomatoes, some beans and mushrooms, a single fried egg, and a cup of black coffee. 

Harry eats slowly, cutting his food into tiny bites and nursing his black coffee at a leisurely pace. He’s still half-full from indulging the previous night, and normally he would have skipped breakfast altogether, but having food in his mouth is too excellent of a way to avoid conversation for him to pass up.

Hogwarts students are still filtering into the Great Hall in clumps and clusters; Harry can see a few people doing double-takes at seeing him sitting at the Slytherin table, as though they thought that the previous night was just a strange dream produced by some fever-addled mind. 

“Potter!” Harry turns in his seat: Angelina is approaching, her long braids whipping about behind her as she strides purposefully over. “Didya really have to go and do this _this_ year? I’m Quidditch Captain, you know, not Wood, so it’s not as if this is going to help you get back on him for his long-winded pregame lectures.” 

“You try getting the Hat to change its mind,” Harry retorts dryly. “Stubborn bastard.” Spitefully, he adds, “You’d think it’d listen to what I have to say, after…” He cuts himself off, shaking his head as he thinks of the Chamber of Secrets, facing the basilisk with nothing but Fawkes and a sword he didn’t know how to use. His brows raise slightly as he recalls the Sword of Gryffindor— that’s an argument he hadn’t thought to use. Hadn’t Dumbledore said that only a true Gryffindor could wield it? 

“Yes, well,” Angelina says, “Everyone can tell that the Hat’s gone a bit barmy. The important thing is— you’re still going to be able to play Seeker, right?” 

“ _Obviously_ not,” Malfoy cuts in with a sneer. 

“No one asked your opinion, Malfoy,” Angelina shoots back without even glancing in his direction. “So, Harry?” 

Harry shrugs. The truth is, even if he _can_ play on the Gryffindor Quidditch team this year, he’d rather not. That time would be better spent learning spells, or studying runes, or practicing dueling. “I imagine you’d have to get Snape’s permission,” he tells her. 

Angelina grimaces. “Well,” she sighs. “I suppose I should have expected that.” She lays a hand on his shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” She scans the surrounding Slytherins with a keen eye, in a clear warning. 

Ignoring the bundle of warmth forming in his belly, Harry nods. With one last glance around, Angelina ruffles the same rat’s nest that the twins had already messed up past the point of no return and heads back to the Gryffindor table. 

“I feel like I’m getting a shovel talk from my inamorato’s overprotective family,” Zabini says dryly. 

Harry flushes, which only seems to make Zabini's smirk deepen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...okay, I'll admit it. You can probably expect me to update this again. Not sure when or how frequently, but this idea is gnawing at my brain too much to leave it alone.


End file.
